Page 53 of Stealing Sophie
Chapter 15
“Oh! Blast ye! Be damned, ye filthy, nithering cur!”
Startled, Sophie tentatively approached the kitchen along the corridor. She had not seen Connor yet that morning, and after putting on the amber gown again–a sad ruin of a thing now–she had gone to the kitchen in search of breakfast when she heard the woman’s voice. Rounding a corner, she also heard the slap and whisk of a broom.
A woman stood by the outer kitchen door, wielding the broom. “Be gone, ye great keekie!” With a sound of disgust, she turned back. “Oh! Mistress!”
She came toward Sophie. With pink cheeks and long tendrils of dark hair escaping from a lace-edged cap, she was a pretty woman with a sturdy, voluptuous build, wearing a gray dress and white apron. A plaid in pale colors was wrapped crosswise around her.
“Mrs. Murray?” Sophie smiled. “I am–”
”Aye, Mistress, I know. Connor’s wee bride! Took ye off in the night, how exciting!” Her blue eyes and the high color in her cheeks reminded Sophie of Roderick.
“I...suppose it was exciting,” Sophie said.
“Och, some Highland brides begin their married life that way. Not me—I met my Neill in a market square when I was selling rags and trinkets with my father. I am Mary Murray.” She extended her hand, her grip warm and sure. “I do apologize for blathering on! But those damnable crows made me so angry!”
“Crows?” Sophie asked.
“Aye, they are eating the wee seeds from the kitchen garden again. I planted seeds the other day, some peas and slips of marigold and lavender, just as I did at home. But even if the crows did leave them be, nothing grows in this accursed place. Nothing a-tall.” She set aside the broom and went to the long worktable, where vegetables were piled up to be prepared for a meal.
Though she was middle-aged with silver threading through her black hair, Mary Murray had a serenely lovely face, her skin smooth and dusky, her eyes vividly blue. Though she had grown sons, her skin showed hardly a crease. Sophie saw that Roderick very much resembled his mother.
“I am sorry ye heard me ranting,” the woman went on. “My folk were Travelers, and my grandmother swore like a fishwife when her Romany temper was up. I am afraid she taught me too well, and it slips out now and then.” She laughed.
“I do not mind,” Sophie said. “I was educated in a convent, where we were taught to be quiet, though I often talked to others and scolded for it. So it is refreshing to hear a woman speak as freely as she pleases.” She smiled.
“And so you may do here, Mistress, just as you like. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.” Her eyes sparkled. “Roderick said you were interested in exploring the castle. It is a sad place, this, but once very fine, as you may know. There is a ghost or two here...well, yer own kin owned Glendoon, so you may know the stories too.” Mary sorted through leeks and carrots and then took up a knife to slice them up. “I will have a good stew later, but there is hot porridge in the kettle if you are hungry.”
“Thank you.” Sophie helped herself to porridge, steaming and thick, salty and sweet, just delicious. After she ate and cleaned the bowl in a pan of water set aside for that purpose, she took up another knife and set about chopping carrots and turnips.
Mary Murray did not seem it odd to find the apparent mistress of the house helping in the kitchen. Nor did she think it out of place for the laird to steal himself a bride. Sophie glanced at her, curious, as they worked.
“So I hear ye came back to Scotland from France,” Mary said. “I remember when the MacCarran chief was exiled over there, along with others. Your father? Aye, I thought so. He was a fine man, loyal to the Jacobites and to Scotland. As fine as yer brother, Heaven protect him.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Murray.”
“Mary. Did ye like France?” she prodded.
“I did. We lived there for a little while, and then Rome. I spent the last six years in Belgium, in Bruges, in the English Convent there.”
“Broozh? Where is that?”
“The Netherlands.”
“Where the laces and wee flower bulbs come from?”
Sophie nodded. “Aye! Bruges is a lovely place, a very old town like a little jewel, with canals and swans, so peaceful. There are women there who sit in their doorways all day tatting lace. In the spring, you can see whole fields of tulips and daffodils, just beautiful, miles of bright color. At the English Convent, where I went to school, we had a garden that was all tulips and daffodils and hyacinths. I loved it,” she added, smiling.
“I have a wee garden at home, about two leagues from here. I have mostly vegetables and some flowers. I need daffodils and marigolds to protect the vegetables from the deer and rabbits. And I have some roses, too. Someday I would like some Dutch bulbs. They sell them at the markets in Crieff and Perth, but they are dear to buy.”
“I brought some bulbs back with me from Bruges,” Sophie said. “Some of them are already started. I would be happy to give some to you.”
“Oh, Mistress, thank you!” Mary beamed.
“My things were sent on to Duncrieff, though. I came to Glendoon with nothing.”
“Stolen away, aye. It is the way. And no choice in the matter, from what I heard.”
